Third Man In: An Enemies-to-Lovers Sports Romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romances Book 2)
Third Man In
Book Two in The PlaymakersSeries
by G.K. Brady
This book is a work of fiction.Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginationor are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, orpersons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by G.K. Brady. All rights reserved, includingthe right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.
Edited by Jenny Quinlan, Historical Editorial
Cover design by Jenny Quinlan, Historical Editorial
ISBN 978-1-7332763-7-5
ISBN 978-1-7332763-8-2
ISBN 978-1-7332763-9-9
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
1. WreckingBall
2. DoYou Know the Way to San Jose?
3. ButI'm Comfortable with my Head in the Sand
4. Changeis Good, Says the Person Whose Life is Static
5. IntoEvery Life, a Tornado Must Rage
6. TheAtonement Express Runs Through Denver
7. Friendsand Family Get in Free
8. YouBefore Me
9. ICan't Talk Because My Foot's in My Mouth
10. This’llWork, I Just Know It Will
11. DogDaze
12. Who(the Hell) Let the Dogs Out?
13. TakingCare of Business
14. AFine Mess
15. JustJameson and Me
16. Karma'sa Bitch
17. OfPorn Stars and Drug Dealers
18. MergingTraffic Ahead
19. Allin the Family
20. ManPlans, and God Laughs
21. DangerousCurves Ahead
22. You Might've Missed a Spot
23. OfCourse He’s a great Kisser; He’s a Porn Star
24. OpenKimono
25. NoExcuses
26. IBrought You Something
27. OpenKimono Redux
28. StillWaters
29. YouCan Pick Your Friends, But You Can’t Pick Your Family
30. Doneand Dusted
31. WhenLife Gives You Lemons, Chuck ’em Back
32. Truly, Madly, Deeply
Acknowledgements
More in The Playmakers Series
About the Author
Forhockey grinders, enforcers, and plumbers—the role players whose contributionsare as vital to a team’s success as the playmakers.
CHAPTER 1
Wrecking Ball
T.J. Shanstromskated to a stop and glanced at the jumbotronsuspended above the ice like a blocky space ship. Seven-to-one. A barn burner. With his team on the wrongend of it. His eyes flicked to the red lamp pulsing like a damn beaconbehind the goalie net, then lit on his opponents celebrating with a group hug.He smashed his stick against the goal, ringing it on the metal pipe.
He hatedbeing schooled. Especially by his team’s biggest rival—the team thathad traded him years earlier.
“Kevin May,” groused T.J.’s linemate,Gage Nelson, as they skated toward their bench. “That’s his fourth goal tonight.He’s not even that good.”
Though he kept his mouth shut, T.J. fumed. That the veteranright wing from his old team was having the game of his career burned in T.J.’sstomach like a week-old chalupa. His own team’s playhad resembled a car driving with one flat tire: uneven, bumping along, sluggish. Off by at least one step, they’d been beaten inall the little battles that make up a game.
T.J. wanted this win tonight—badly—but his team’s luckdimmed with each tick of the game clock. Since they’d traded him to the SanJose Earthquake, he’d wanted to show his old team what they’d given up. Notthat he minded playing for San Jose. It had its perks—great weather and prettywomen—and theEarthquake had a shot at winning the Stanley Cup this year. But this was amatter of pride. He wanted to rub it in their faces, but he’d barely registereda shot, much less a point. Revenge was a sweet mistress, and a chance to gloatwould have put a smile on his face the rest of that night.
He clambered over the boards and plopped down, sliding alongthe bench to make room for his teammates. Chest heaving, he shook off a gloveand grabbed a water bottle. As he streamed water into his mouth, he watched Mayglide toward the center line. The asshole jerked hischin at him and pointed at the jumbotron, where thegoal was being replayed.
“Hey, Shanny!” May taunted.“Scoreboard!”
T.J. pictured himself wiping that damn grin off KevinFucking May’s face.
Scoring wasn’t T.J.’s main talent. Maybe it was time herocked somebody’s world and got his team pumped up. Took this game back. Theystill had ten minutes. It wasn’t impossible.
May positioned himself for the puck drop against theEarthquake’s star center, Marcus Frisk, and lost the draw. T.J. growled out a“yes.”
An Earthquake player corralled the puck. Asweet pass to Frisk. He blazed toward the opponent’s net. Teammates andfoes closed in fast.
T.J. shot up from his seat. “Go, Frisky!”
Frisk pulled up. One of his wingers streaked toward thefront of the net. “Send it!” T.J. yelled, echoed by his teammates. Frisk letfly a perfect pass that landed on his winger’s blade. The winger one-timed thepuck, ringing it off the post. It slid into the corner boards. A collectivegroan rose from the Earthquake bench.
“It’s okay, boys,” T.J. hollered. “We got this.” His eyesswung from the corner, where several players battled for the puck, to Frisk,who was poised high in the slot.
The puck slid out, and Frisk gathered it, pivoting. Mayskated at him like a heat-seeking missile. Frisk didn’t see him in time. May’sfeet left the ice, and he slammed Frisk hard. Frisk’s head snapped back. Hedropped to the ice.
Stunned silence swept the Earthquake bench. With a swell ofrage, T.J.’s yell pierced the air. “May, you fucking douchebag!”
He barely registered an iron grip on his shoulder preventinghim from flying over the boards and onto the ice to pound May into oblivion.Given the chance, T.J. would go, and his teammates knew it. It was what he waspaid to do. Instead, he sat down hard as trainers ran onto the ice.
“Shanny, Frisky’snot up yet,” Nelson hissed beside him.
Medical staff bent over Frisk, and finally he sat upright.T.J.’s shoulders eased, lowering several inches. He hadn’t realized how tightthey’d been.
With help, Frisk swayed to his knees, two Earthquake playersflanking him, skating him off the ice. T.J. and his teammates stood and bangedtheir sticks against the boards in a show of support.
A whistle blew. May headed to the penalty box while the refannounced the call and signaled it by rotating his clenched fists. “Two minutesfor charging.”
“What the hell, Stripes?” T.J. flung an arm. “Two minutes?That’s it? He injures our guy and—”
“Not now, Shanstrom,” Coach Rogersgrowled from behind him. “We’re on the power play.” To the whole team, he said,“Now let’s get some goals!”
Fuckthat call! May is a criminal!
Not only was Frisk their best player, he was a friend, abrother, a guy T.J. had battled beside. T.J. ground down on his mouthguard, his jaw muscles bunching, his temper simmering.
The Earthquake power play mattered little because his teamdidn’t